


shattered into ash

by crownlessliestheking



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Canon Compliant, Character Study, First Age, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, POV Second Person, Second Age, Third Age, Unhealthy Relationships, monologues, with some liberties taken
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24932635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: You were once Mairon, once Sauron and Gorthaur and Thû, Abhorred and Cruel. You were once Annatar, though something in you shies away to think of it. You were Sauron again, Sauron amplified, Sauron-through-the-Ring, a lens to make you greater than your whole, with which you could see the truth of Middle Earth shaking before you. You were Tar-Mairon, the prisoner, the Admirable once again, the Deceiver as always. And now- now, what are you? Who are you?
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon, Gollum | Sméagol & The One Ring, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	shattered into ash

**i.**

The world is young yet, and you know your role in it perfectly. You are part of the larger harmony, you Sing metals and elements into being and perfect them in the heat of Aulë’s great forges. You bow before Varda Herself, the Star-Kindler who shimmers in terrifying radiance. She often comes to the forges; she does not know you but even the passing weight of her indifference is enough to make you shudder. You incline your head to Kementári, when the rustle of her leaves creeps beneath the din of the forge, her flowers refusing to wilt in the heat. She is rarely present; she pays mind to none but her husband. The earth itself trembles when they speak, and vines push themselves in through the cracks beneath you. You rip them up and toss them to the weaker flames, those that require wood and growing things rather than Song and divinity for fuel.

It is not cruelty, not then; they simply have no place there. The Giver of Fruits, the Green Lady, only has what place she forces for herself. You would rather your Master go to her, rather than have to clean up the greenery that sprouts in her wake and smooth over the cracks. The other Maia do not mind, but they are not you. They do not have your attention to detail, they do not have what makes you precious and what sets you apart.

You do not say any of this to your Master. Aulë would not hear it if you did, though he listens to you at times when you decide to offer your own ideas. You are doing so much here, elevating the craft, striving for perfection and the beautification of Arda. But. You think that there could be _more_. You have never seen that world beyond that which you Sang, your own voice weaving between harmonies but subsumed by the rest of the choir.

You were not allowed your own, and you must content yourself with that. Though you cannot stop yourself from thinking it could be better. You could have made it better. You do not question, only suggest, for the Maker would not appreciate it.

(Though he too disobeyed The One, did he not? You did not see it yourself, but you heard whispers, and you have seen the halls he has delved deep beneath the forges, great rooms in a keep that lies entombed in stone, empty as it waits to be populated. It makes something in your chest twist to look at this open defiance, this thing that you know _should not be_. On a purely pragmatic standpoint, as yours often is, you believe it to be a waste. The space could have gone to expand the workshops and forges; isolated as it is beneath the mountain, it would be perfect for more delicate projects.)

But you have no place for such doubts, you remind yourself. Yet, they persist, a scratch in an otherwise unmarred surface, a stain you cannot remove. You dislike flaws, you always have; to think that you yourself are flawed- no. That, you cannot abide, and so you do not.

Instead, you content yourself to pride when your Master’s hand rests upon your shoulder, impossibly heavy with approval (not stifling, no, never stifling, for you only work on what you are told to, Aulë is stricter with those devoted to him than he had been with himself), and the approving rumble in his voice.

It is enough. Of course it is.

But then, a visitor. Not that visitors are unusual- but this one is, perhaps. You feel it the moment he steps into your Master’s domain; his presence is near suffocating to some of the other Maia here; you see them shudder with it, their fana flickering for a moment under the sheer weight of it. Yours does not, but you are amongst the greatest of those working here and to be that you must be firmly rooted to yourself. You are not to be influenced in such ways.

You find, however, that you are to be influenced in different ways. Melkor, his name is, the mightiest of the Powers that came to this world. He who Sung discord into the great harmonies, who walked in the Void to seek the Flame Everlasting. You know him solely by reputation, but you remember the cadence of his voice, how you had yearned to join yours to it as his theme rose up above the others. You had not, of course- there was discord there, and no harmony, but you think perhaps if more voices had joined in, there would have been. But you know too that you could not have withstood the rebuke of the One that came after it.

Still. He is here now, and the weight of Melkor’s attention is different. It is a heady, tangible thing; his spirit is a flame so cold it burns, and if you are gold, malleable and beautiful and precious, then he is iron. Blackened, perhaps, but unbendable and unbreakable.

He finds you in the forges; once, twice, over and over, until the number of visits rise to nigh uncountable (although you do keep counting), and you flatter yourself that you have captured his attention. You bask in it; he sees that which the others do not. Or, what the others refuse to, he murmurs to you. His voice holds the weight of an atom splitting, a star collapsing in on itself. He sees you, and you feel known.

He has journeyed deeper into Arda than any other, you find, past where the Lamps cast their glow. That is where your works have been going, to shape a land which you have yet to see, isolated within the forges as you are; one that is still wild with Yavanna’s labors, overgrown. One where the Children dwell sleeping and waiting. You hang on to his every word, ever eager for the news. Ever eager to hear what your own work has been fashioned into- and you must suppress anger when you find that there is yet nothing there. Nothing of note but wild beasts and mountains, nothing of _interest_. Your labors wait for those that yet slumber, and they go unloved.

You do not go to your Master to ask about it; you know that he will tell you to have patience. You know that he will tell you that the Children will bring forth the riches you have placed in the Earth, that they too will begin to build and forge great things. He does not speak of his own children besides, those that should not have been and yet are, those that lie slumbering in some deep cave, waiting for life to be breathed into them when the time is right.

Instead, you content yourself with listening- and, when you find that Melkor is amenable to answering, you ask him questions. You ask him if he has seen the mythical Children, and he tells you that he has not. There is contempt in his voice as he speaks of them; to him they are but ants that simply exist in a world that is his. They are to be either crushed underfoot or ignored entirely. He does not say this directly, of course, but you are no fool. You aren’t sure if you share his opinion, and you keep that to yourself and focus on your commonalities instead. There are plenty, and your conversation easily flows.

You want to know what he has wrought across the world, what his own visions of that place are. He has his own plans for it, this much you are aware of, and he is ever vague about them so you do not pry. But he is happy enough to share what he has seen, and when he speaks of the _potential_ , of _what could yet be_ , you find yourself drawn in as iron to processed ferrite.

He spirits you away from the forges one day, tells you that Aulë will not notice. You resist at first, but your curiosity is overpowering- you have to see what it is he sees. You want to know, more than anything else. So you go. You walk the wild places, out of the light of Almaren and the Lamps, and you find that the darkness too is beautiful. There are things here untouched, there is so much that could be done. The Valar have seen fit to ignore it, narrow-minded and constrained to their small circle of light. But what is light, if it cannot be spread to these places? If they refuse to share it, and all that is here is the dim distance of Elentári’s stars, set too high to provide anything but depth to the shadows. Only Yavanna’s hand is here, and even then, there is a great blight that spreads from where Melkor walks, heavy on the earth. Each step a punishment, you think, as you watch the green wither and die. They are untended, disorderly, but you have always thought she could do more.

You return to the forges, deep in contemplation, and you find that you have not been missed.

And so when Melkor returns and offers to take you away again, you agree without a second thought. Your work may go neglected, but what use is it, if it is to come to nothing? No. You wish to build something that lasts, and when you tell this to Melkor, he laughs and you tremble to hear it. He asks if you would like to help him, then, and when he tells you of a place he will call Utumno, you cannot help yourself. His designs are raw, unrefined, and you know how to improve them. And so you do.

When he sees you later looking contemplatively at a hollow set into the side of a jaggedly raised mountain, its face dark and forbidding, he tells you that it is yours to do as you see fit. All you must do is speak the words, and he will have it built. Angband, you call it, and it shapes itself to your vision on every stolen visit, every moment you can muster. It is _yours_ , and it will be yours; it is made to weather all cataclysms you can think of, as much a part of the landscape as anything else.

When you tell him that you want more than these simple stolen moments, that the work in the forges are nothing in comparison to this, he simply smiles. He knows.

“You will never be satisfied, my Mairon,” he says. Approving, more than anything else, and the way he says your name settles right into your core. You have never been anyone’s before, you realize- not Aulë’s, else he would have recognized your true talent, would have held you more precious than he does. You are among the mightiest of the Maia, and to have this recognized, to see your hunger mirrored in another- well.

The world plunges into darkness, and you are outside at a feast when it happens, and when you feel a hand in yours, you _laugh_.

You go.

Angband awaits, and Middle Earth in its eternal night is yours for the taking. There is so much to be done.

**ii.**

You do not meet the Children at first, not until your Master sees fit to inform you of their existence, and tells you with glee that they fear him. He relishes it. You are curious enough to venture forth with him one day, and you think- hm. They are not mythical, nor special, and you do not understand how this world could be meant for these cringing, cowering things. There is no light in their eyes, but you grudgingly admit that the Firstborn are clever if not cunning. They learn fast, they can be shaped. They can be useful, and that you admire, though they do disrupt the order you have made here. They fear you, but- some of them wish to learn from you. Some of them wish to come with you. How odd. The Children, you later learn, can hold conflicting viewpoints within themselves easily. They can believe two contradictory ideas with the entirety of their being, and the dichotomy, the illogic of it is something _your_ very being rebels against. You do not understand it- you do not understand them at all.

(You will, though. You will eventually break them down to their basest parts, until they are naught but cringing things that flinch and shudder at your form, and then you will rebuild them to be _better_ than they once were. More loyal, more efficient. Far less flawed. But you do not know this yet- you have not yet made a proper study of them to know how, to consider it seriously. You need to know their own capabilities before you set your mind to improvements.)

You think perhaps you hate them, when you hear the thunder of horns and hooves, and you feel the air crackle with power- no Powers-, and you know it is for them. To protect these pathetic creatures from you and your Master, as if they have shown themselves to be more than servants. Well. Perhaps you should not fault the those who fled West for wishing to have the worshippers they have desired for so long.

You make ready to stand and fight, alongside him, alongside the Balrogs and the others who have all sworn themselves to him. You have done the calculations; you know you cannot win, not easily, but there may be a chance-

And he tells you not to. He tells you to hide, to protect what must be protected, keep secret what must be kept secret. He tells you to _escape_ , even in the midst of the fight, even when you know you are losing.

“I will return for you, my Mairon,” he tells you, and how could you believe otherwise? You want more, and he has promised that. You are already his lieutenant, you are already his just as all of Arda is, and you will wait. Your voice may have gone unheard in the Song, but you shall shape the Earth and its destiny more so than any other. He tells you to go and so you do; you will ensure everything is ready for his return.

His forces scatter, you amongst them. To Utumno, to Angband, to the deepest pits and keeps in shadowy places that the light will never reach and those of the West will never think to look.

You do not doubt, even when you perhaps should. Even when the years stretch on and the last you saw of him was a figure kneeling, suing for pity from mighty Tulkas. It does not suit him, and you burn with anger to see it, though you know he is only there of his own volition. You trust that he has some plan of his own; you will keep the hearth while he is gone. The Balrogs must be curtailed, the work you have wrought here will not be undone, for are you not his right hand, in this and all else?

The Orcs multiply under your careful guidance, the holds of Angband and Utumno grow ever darker. Vampires too, are a success; Thuringwethil is better company than grim Gothmog, though she is fey and borders on insolent at times. It is a habit she will need to break when your Master returns, and you often warn her of this. She is not the first of the Vampires; those were all failed experiments, twisted things that soon outgrew their usefulness, though your Master was fond of their bloodlust. You found quickly that it needed to be tempered with something more, and so you bent your will to it.

Perhaps there is too much of acerbic wit in this one, though; none of the others would speak to you as she does. Certainly, none of the others speak to you at all, nor you them. But you do not mind her pride, as long as it does not veer into arrogance, and she is careful about walking the line. You doubt that she believes in a Master she has yet to see, but you know that she will once she does see him. It is in her blood, woven into her existence. You have crafted loyal servants for him, when he returns.

He will be free soon enough, you know. He is not one to be chained and bound unless it suits his own purposes, though what purposes he could have in the West, you do not know. It is a land he scorned so long ago, before his former kin moved there after Almaren had been routed by the destruction he and his host wrought. The destruction that you, too, wrought there. You do not mourn the loss, though. This is better; this suits you more. And you know that he will return, too.

And he does. He comes, with three stars clenched in his fist, bleeding freely but with grim triumph upon his face. He takes you into his arms, and you tell him that his armies remain ready, that they are stronger than ever. You tell him that this land remains his, even as your eyes are drawn to the brilliance of what you now know to be gemstones. You rarely make things of beauty for beauty’s sake; above all else, you favor utility, but even you must admit that they are glorious. You suggest that perhaps they could be set in a crown for him, and you meet his gaze for a moment before it darts down to the gems, considering.

In his eyes, you see fortresses raised and fallen; in his mien you feel the heat of a thousand forges churning out weapons the likes of which the other Valar could not even dream of. Beasts of scale and fang and fire; twisted versions of the Children; armies marching from midnight doors and leaving nothing in their wake but that which you desire.

You see yourself, reflected in careful planning and sieges and the desire to shape a world that has been too long left untended. And you see yourself at his side always, a lieutenant dreadful in power, his partner in this as all things.

He smiles. They would be perfect in a crown, he agrees. Iron, nothing ornate; the Silmarils need no ornamentation.

So that is what they are called.

He says it as if they were something unspeakably precious, his voice a caress. He does not let go of them, even when you rest one hand over the clenched fist in which he holds them, their light blinding and unyielding and casting him in deathly, hollow pallor.

You return his smile, and guide him to the forges of Angband instead, telling him of your projects in his absence.


End file.
